Cowboy Boots and Black Denim

Once, when I was very young,
Maybe four or five,
I had myself entirely convinced,
That I was a boy.

No longer dazed by princes,
No longer raptured by my barbies,
Mud and brute,
Rapidly became my new play things.
Suddenly my life was infinitely simple
But the single problem remained.
I was still the tiny image of my future debutante self.

Climbing into my four post, canopy, bed,
Amid the folds of magenta chiffon,
My head would spin.
I longed for the comfort of the plastic car bed of my brother,
To roll out of the red vesicle of sleep,
And don a pair of black denim overalls,
From ankle to hip adorned in grass stains.
Beat up, and abused cow boy boots,
Smell of the wild wild west of my dreams woven,
Into the intricate stitching.
My character unsuiting of
The delicate silks and cashmere’s of my tragic wardrobe.
My scraped knees unbecoming to a little caterpillar.
But I’d sooner be a warthog than a butterfly.